


Brightness Falls From the Air

by Selden



Category: Lili Marleen / Death is a Master From Germany
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4074034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selden/pseuds/Selden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dust hath closed Helen's eye; a war story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brightness Falls From the Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quillori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillori/gifts).



 

A great black poodle lifts its leg against the lamp-post; lets out a stream of piss.

And I? I have made a wish.

Sitting in a cafe, behind the pouring rain, I wished and wished and wished for him, for him to come back again. And I smiled as I did so for I knew it would come true. Like the click of a heavy china cup as it slips into its place in the saucer. Like the way the roots fit into the soil, down where the ground has been opened; clods seething with smooth-skinned wood; never seen the air before.

I pay for my gritty coffee and go out into the rain. Each drop carries its little cargo of black dust, like falling frogspawn.

But see? It patters round me in a circle, as if I am in a spotlight on a stage. Envious eyes are heavy on my back as I walk home.

 

I collect cans of food, dented, missing labels. A lucky dip. At the end of my shelf sits a jar of apricots preserved in brandy, like so many little golden egg-yolks, glowing. I know I should hide them, that they represent a terrible temptation, but I am not sure when he will come. I unfold his letters instead, lay them out across the table.

 

_I often think of you._

_Me and the boys had a good time._

_The noise is terrible._

_Please send me._

_I often wish._

 

I fold them back up and put them away.

 

When he comes I have wiped everything clean. The air in my rooms sparkles like sugar.

He smells terrible. I wipe him clean as well.

He holds his hands out above the sink like a little boy, dirt rubbed into the webs of them. His nails are black crescents. He looks down at me and smiles.

 

It is harder to feed him than I thought it would be. We eat slippery things out of the tins, and go searching for more. The air is full of dust. It's like walking through walls, like breathing them in. When I wash my hair, grit comes out in a slack wet snake across the porcelain, down the drain. He helps me wring out the wet weight of it, one cold hand on the back of my neck. Come to bed, he says. You have hair like a film star.

I tell him I am sorry I did not send him cigarettes.

He tells me a story about a fight in the mess hall, a story about two men with the same name who got sent home to the wrong families. I laugh politely. A silver laugh, people call it. Like a white lie.

We sit across from each other at the table and eat three apricots each, carving little golden slivers from their flesh with our silver spoons. It is like we have eaten so many suns.

So easy to remember when the sky was not slack with dust. We smile at each other over the table, half-drunk like wasps on rotten apples.

 

In the night he is sick, heaving in the other room like a cat with a hairball. Ugly little barking sounds.

When he gets back into bed, he is very cold. He smells sweet, as well. Sweeter than sugar, like rotten honey.

When I am sure he is asleep, I slip out of bed and stand by the window. The streetlights are not working, but an orange glow comes up under the clouds, and I think I can see the poodle in the road, a black thing moving down there in the dark.

My pills are in my makeup bag under the sink; I swallow them dry. Then there is concealer; foundation. I poke my fingers into the soft cream in the dark of the bathroom and rub them into my face with my eyes closed. Some will come off on the pillow, true, but there's no helping that.

 

I send him out the next day to find food. The sky above us turns the blue of old enamel, low and powdery. Perhaps it will snow. I stand waiting and clear a little fan in the dust at my feet. Other people are jealous, I can see.  Even my shoes are shining.

He comes back with skin glassy as butter under the grime, panting, heaving.

Not tonight, he says. I put the apricots back on the shelf.

 

The next day I miss my coffee and follow him. He walks down the road between soft black shadows cast by the low sun, and his shoulders curve downwards under the bulk of his coat. He sits down for a long time in an empty square, not moving even when pigeons come to peck around his feet. His face is white as condensed milk; I remember the taste of it, heavy on my tongue, slipping down my throat like summer. I know now what he smells like.

 

That evening I open all our remaining tins. Brackish grey beans and pink stuff molded to the shape of the can, smooth and private as internal organs, still shaped to fit the body that bore them even as they are slapped onto the marble counter by a butcher's red fingers.

What is this in aid of, he says. How will we eat all this.

I came back for you, he says.

I think, he says, I'm not doing so well.

He looks up at me, sweet, staring, overripe. I stroke his golden hair. A little comes away in my hand.

I am sorry I couldn't send you the pills, I say.

Come away with me, he says. There's no reason to stay here, my darling. Who knows, we could get quite far.

I smile and line up the tins in front of him, their round mouths open. A feast for midnight, he says, and he laughs.

He asks me not to go to the cafe. Come with me, he says. We can pretend we are feeding the pigeons. He smiles and lifts his silver spoon. His fingernails are black.

The people at the cafe would miss me, I say. I'm a regular.

He looks at me, then, and says nothing.

 

When he goes out the next day, he searches for petrol.

I watch him siphon and spit, and sit after a while in the black dust, coughing. When I come out to fetch him, he tips his head back and smiles. He is glad to see me; anyone could tell.

 

And I? I have made another wish.

 

Sitting in a cafe, under the stretched-thin sun, I pour powdered milk into my coffee. I tap my red nails on the cup. A girl who looks like a film start always has something to sell, and I ate up all my pills, every one. My chances are good. Everyone is jealous, I can see.

I pay for my coffee, adding my coin to the line on the counter. One for every day I've come here since they tried to make me go. Really, they're lucky I'm so honest. And I have to make my own coffee as well, spooning it out from the jar in the back room.

When the water tank runs dry, I'll stop paying. Give an inch, these days, and they'll take a mile.

 

Over my head, the sky hangs like a halo. The big black poodle comes up and licks my hand, warm and wet and prickly as a chick fresh from the egg. Come on, boy, I say. My face feels heavy with makeup, soft from the jar.

It follows me to where he lies. Not far, for he was very heavy, and his skin ripped where I pulled at him. Just far enough, behind a broken wall, in the shadow. His face is very pale and very cold. The dog sniffs at him.

Here you go, boy, I say. Things should work out for one of us.

 

I unfold the letters I took from his pocket, greased by his fingers, weak at the folds.

 

_You said it was over_

_But if you want me to leave_

_Come and get me, my darling._

_Everywhere people are leaving_

_Empty houses_

_And, they say, contamination._

_There is no-one here._

_I wish you would come._

 

I took all my pills and his too, but my hair goes down the drain like golden wire.

I sit at the table and watch the sky, white and dull as a dead man's eye.

I remember, he bent his throat back for me like a benediction when I showed him the knife. We can say it was silver, like the spoons, I think. A white lie.

In the bowl in front of me, apricots swim in brandy like golden eggs. I make a little wish and start eating.

 

 

 


End file.
